Sheepdogs: Keeping the Wolves at Bay by Gordon Carroll (tools of titans ebook .TXT) 📗

siccing Max on her, but I was afraid she might hurt him. Instead I smiled pleasantly and said, “I’m barely in my thirties.”

“Stress,” she said, not bothering to look up.

I went into my office, pulled the shades so the sun could glow in and sat at my desk. Max laid down and started licking himself.

“That’s gross,” I said. Max belched and kept on licking. I looked at the Frazetta painting of Conan across from my desk and wondered if I could borrow his sword for a minute.

My office is kind of a hodgepodge of artwork, film, and literary works. The two Frazettas are a nice offset to the complete works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle that takes up two shelves of my bookcase. I have an original Gene Colon painting of Dare Devil, a Neil Adams of Bat Man, an X-Men by John Byrne, an Avengers End Game with Josh Brolin’s Thanos complete with gauntlet and all six Infinity Stones and my Magnum Opus, a Superman by Alex Ross from his four-volume, graphic novel Kingdom Come collection. Gary Cooper decorates my west wall in a poster from High Noon, and Damon Wayans outfitted in a Marine D.I hat and smiling with a gold tooth from the movie Major Payne, adorns the south wall. Hugh Jackman as Wolverine is the centerpiece of the east wall, with smaller signed frames of Bruce Willis in Die Hard and Hostage. There are Star Trek collectables edging the shelves that run the walls bracketing the room, along with Battle Star Galactica fighters and Star War’s Battle Cruisers, Tie Wing Fighters, and Giant two legged Snow Walkers thrown in for dramatic effect. I have a framed movie poster of Richard Burton and Victor Mature in The Robe (“were you out there?”), and another of Robert Downy Jr. decked out in Iron Man’s crimson and gold armor. Two more shelves of my bookcase are filled with fun reads like Stephen King’s The Stand, Robert Crais’ The Watchman; Macbeth by that Shakespeare guy, a few Pattersons, some Clancy, most of Sheldon’s and Crichton’s stuff, and maybe all of Clavell’s. I’ve got Wouk, and Jakes, Trevanian, Austen, Wick, Donaldson, and a whole slew of others.

I’ve taken courses in German, Dutch and Russian and remember just enough to talk to my dogs. My desk has an Apple on it (the computer not the fruit); a picture of my late wife and daughter, a picture of my late partner Sam Ponsiago, shots of all my working canines from over the years and pictures of my comrades who died serving with me, both in the Marines and at the Sheriff’s Office.

The phone rang. Yo-Yo picked it up. “Sheepdog Detective Agency.” She listened for a second; covered the mouthpiece with her hand, yelled into me, “You want to talk to a cop named Fred?” I wondered why I spent the money on a hold button and intercom.

I nodded and picked up the phone.

“Hey, Gil.” His voice told me right away he had bad news.

“Hi, Fred.”

“I might have some info on the Franklin kid. A copper down in the Springs saw we had a missing person report on him and called to let us know they found a body that’s probably him.”

A black hole opened in my stomach. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry too. It’s pretty bad, Gil. The kid was tortured. The copper in the Springs said it’s the worst thing he’s ever seen and he ain’t no rookie.”

“How are they identifying the body?”

“Just physical description so far, but it all seems to match.”

“How long has he been dead?”

“Two — maybe — three days. The body’s too badly damaged to get an exact time yet. They just found him around eight this morning.” About the same time I met with Lisa Franklin at the coffee shop. Fred wasn’t done. “Cause of death was a heart attack.”

“Heart attack?” I thought back to Yolanda talking about stress.

“Yeah. I don’t even want to think what they’d have to do to induce a heart attack in a seventeen year old kid.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

“Gil, I was thinking, since you’re working the case and all, maybe it would be better if you broke the news to the mother. She’ll have to go down and make positive ID.”

“Yes, I appreciate that, Fred. I’ll tell her.” I hung up.

I called Lisa Franklin; she picked up on the second ring.

“Hello?” I could hear the underlying trace of hope that edged her voice. I knew her hope was that it might be Shane on the line. The black hole in my stomach was growing. I felt sick.

“Lisa, it’s Gil Mason.”

“Did you find him?”

I closed my eyes, fighting the nausea and fear that filled me. “I’m not calling about Shane. I have to ask you a few questions.”

“Okay.” The hope was gone.

“Is your husband home?” I knew the answer, but I had to be certain.

“No. He went to pick up Amber. The rest of the kids are staying with my sister, but the three of us are going to spend the night at a hotel.”

“You’re still at the house?” I had to fight to keep my voice from shaking.

“Yes. The police are gone and I’m cleaning up.”

“Stay there, I’m coming over.”

“Alright.” Now I heard the question and fear in her voice. I wanted to say something to make it better. Instead I was going to have to destroy her world. The black hole swallowed me and all I could do was hang up.

18

On the way to Lisa’s, I called a friend of mine, whose a Denver cop, Andrew “Andy” Miles, and asked him to put out a BOLO for a welfare check on Tom Franklin’s car. I couldn’t tell Andy much without giving up the whole deal, which could mean their deaths, hence the welfare check. I also asked him to clear and list the plate from the limo Mr. Spock and his goons were riding in. He said it checked clear to a Ballard’s Rentals